The subtle shadows
didn’t register
as he glanced beyond
small shoes, loping gaits,
and purple hat ladies,
almost seeing
the miracle of flight
but for an extended blink.

I dreamt I had a cello
between my knees,
a low thrumming
beneath my fingers,
rolling through my spine.

The song was of trembling touch
on a dark-winged night.
I played by waning moon,
words slipping
from a soft place inside.

He picked up the phone,
heard the whir of windmills
and wondered about errors of track-lighting
and truth of photosynthesis.
He thought how his mother would chide him
if she knew of his penchant
for burst neon and fresh balloons.

The painted girl sat across the room,
perched on a three-legged stool,
stiletto-feet swinging.
She heard him murmur about blue
and hoped he’d read her eyes,
filling the space
with his purposeful whimsy.

From tangoing alone
to laughing at their growing energy,
their mismatched buttons
and skipped belt loops
became less important
than the exuberance
they thought they left behind.

There were a few hours
a few days ago
that felt green
and slight and light-
I think my feet unsubmerged
just enough from spring mud to kick a cloud
before descending.

I knew even as moments ticked by
and I could barely swallow my verve,
it would not last
just as I knew
there is no such thing as always,
no matter what men say
with their mustachioed appeal.

I miss the green
and wonder
if I’ll ever be smart enough
not to be fooled by silly sweet words-
I think one of these days,
I will sink irrevocably
and won’t even know it.